


divide

by cherrybirds



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, another soulmate au, bcos we love to yearn and pine, because you can never have too many, each person has a mark that moves toward their soulmate, pining central, soft with a capital s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:22:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25192348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrybirds/pseuds/cherrybirds
Summary: It’s times like this, surrounded by crowds like these, he’s forced to ponder the logistics of soulmates, or more accurately, how he could possibly have one when he’s surrounded by people he is decidedly unimpressed with. He’s got the mark- the unmistakable tendrils of murky black that stains a blotch into his elbow. He’s got the mark, and there’s no scrubbing it off, so it stands to reason he must have one, no matter how little he cares for the selection at hand.Of course, then comes Yamaguchi into his life.( Each person's skin is marked with an 'ink spot'. When you're near your soulmate, the ink spots move across your skin towards each other. )
Relationships: Tsukishima Kei/Yamaguchi Tadashi
Comments: 9
Kudos: 213





	divide

**Author's Note:**

> the title comes from divide by tigers jaw!  
> honestly i saw this prompt and like LEGALLY i had to stick my nose in it bcos u KNOW i love yearning and being touch starved lmfao

Tsukishima is, in the simplest and most family-appropriate of terms, not happy. 

The apartment where he currently sits is small, perhaps even to the point of seeming claustrophobic. Bathed in the dim red glow of the flashing strip lights tacked to the ceilings, the walls seem closer than they should. There’s an overly dense mess of bodies pervading the entire apartment, all chattering and laughing and yelling over one another. The undercurrent of heavy bass music seeps into his skull, settles around his brain like thick mildew. He stares at the ground, rakes his eyes over the sheer amount of plastic cups and cigarette butts ornamenting the linoleum floorboards. It’s enough to make him want to sneer in disgust, so of course, he does.

Nobody cares, or is even paying attention to his expression, but at least he feels slightly better for his efforts. 

He’s at a party, and in slightly more adept and considerably more explicit terms, he’s fucking miserable. Huddled sadly onto a sofa in the corner of a room, head cradled in his right hand to ward off the encroaching headache. It’s someone’s apartment- he doesn’t know who, nor does he care. He’s here on Kuroo’s insistence alone. Thinking about it, he doesn’t know a single person in this room  _ except  _ Kuroo. He considers the drunken crowd for a second, observes the way they spill their drinks and slur their words and laugh far too loud. 

It’s easy to decide that his current solitude is the opposite of a problem, amongst a crowd like this. He concludes almost instantly that he’d prefer to leave with the same amount of friends and acquaintances he came in with. The more he thinks about it though, the more he wonders if he’d prefer to actually take it a leap further, forget Kuroo and leave with one  _ less _ . The aforementioned man had basically dropped him off, clapped his shoulder with a smile, told him to make friends and then disappeared. Tsukishima could kill him for it. 

It’s times like this, surrounded by crowds like these, he’s forced to ponder the logistics of soulmates, or more accurately, how he could possibly have one when he’s surrounded by people he is decidedly unimpressed with. He’s got the mark- the unmistakable tendrils of murky black that stains a blotch into his elbow. He’s got the mark, and there’s no scrubbing it off, so it stands to reason he  _ must  _ have one, no matter how little he cares for the selection at hand. 

Glancing up at the crowd once more, watching the lack of care in their movements, the messiness of everything about each and every person currently in his line of sight, taking a second to consider them- he’s not too hopeful to meet whoever his soulmate might be. 

The sofa on which he resides is both dirty  _ and  _ uncomfortable in equal amounts. It’s an almost offensive olive green in hue, with cushions that seem to be more saturated with lumps than actual smooth padding. The dimmed screen of his phone is telling him it’s one in the morning, though amongst the heaving music, red glaring lights and unceasingly drunk cluster of bodies, it feels like time has been suspended completely. Like he could look outside, see the sun and the moon sat in the sky right next to each other, and it wouldn’t surprise him. He hates that about parties- the way they make everything feel almost muffled and fragmented from reality. 

He’d leave, if he could. Technically speaking, he’s under no obligation to stay. He hasn’t been drinking, he drove here, he doesn’t know anybody, he’s not enjoying himself. These are all perfectly valid reasons to leave- there’s nothing stopping him except the knowledge that Kuroo’s somewhere in this apartment, probably getting far too drunk to even walk straight. He  _ hates  _ him, but (much to his chagrin) he also cares deeply about him, so as long as Kuroo’s flitting about, he’s honour-bound to stay. Like a prisoner chained to his olive green sofa, or something appropriately dramatic along those lines. 

The sofa dips with the weight of a body flopping down next to him, and before he even looks to identify the face, the presence sends a sharp throb of annoyance that ricochets violently off the walls of his skull. He really, really,  _ really _ does not like parties.

“Are you alright? You look kind of scary.” The stranger asks, words wavering lightly where the loudness of his volume struggles against the overpowering din of the music. He wasn’t planning on acknowledging the stranger at all, wasn’t even going to look in his direction. He was simply going to continue his rage filled, solitary existence, scratching lines into a metaphorical tally to mark the passing minutes. This was the plan, but now everything has come crashing down because this particular stranger apparently can’t read an expression and doesn’t know when to leave somebody alone. 

He snaps his head to the side perhaps a little too violently to be justified, gears up to fix the stranger with the most venomous, festering, ‘ _ I-hate-you-please-go-away’ _ glare he’s ever turned on somebody before. Immediately, this internal inferno seems to extinguish itself as his eyes actually register the face in front of him. He’s almost blindsided with the freckles, the dark hair, the slightly upturned corner of his mouth. He hesitates momentarily, though eventually his face settles right back into its previous sour expression. 

“Isn’t that kind of rude? Most people don’t start a conversation by telling someone they look scary.” He offers in response with an appropriately standoffish tone, narrows his eyes at the bark of laughter it evokes from the stranger. He’s tall, though shorter than Tsukishima. The red light makes it hard to see detail, but the freckles embellishing his face are impossible to miss. They move as he laughs, follow the motion of his cheeks as they scrunch upwards with his easy beam. 

“Yeah, I guess it is. But in my defense, you do look all scary over here.-” The stranger snickers at this, leans in minutely toward Tsukishima with a smile that fades from biting humour to something decidedly more genuine. “-But I was seriously asking. Are you okay?” 

“I’m dandy.” He deadpans in response, reverting his gaze from the stranger’s face to stare distantly off into the crowd once more. That should be the end of the conversation.  _ Should _ . As it is however, the stranger shows no signs of moving. He merely hums for a moment, glances across the crowd with his easy smile, settles into the sofa further before turning his head lazily to address Tsukishima again. 

  
“So you don’t like parties, I guess.” Observes the stranger, chittering with amusement at the sardonic stare Tsukishima gives him in response. He can see the beginnings of a soulmate mark bleeding across the skin at the junction of his neck and shoulder, blanketed under the fabric of his shirt’s collar. He stares for all of a millisecond before he’s schooling his face blank once more, returning his eyes to the stranger’s face. 

“No.” He clips, reaching up to adjust his glasses. “I don’t like parties, and I don’t like strangers. No offence and everything.” He finishes, settling the glasses against the bridge of his nose once he’s satisfied. Usually people would start to look offended right about now- which the stranger does, momentarily. A vaguely self conscious look flickers about his eyes, makes Tsukishima brim with something  _ dangerously _ similar to regret. Before he gets the chance for self-retribution however, the stranger has seemingly bolstered himself and restored his affable grin. He simply offers a hand in Tsukishima’s direction, bony fingers extended straight.

“Alright, I guess that makes sense. I’m Yamaguchi Tadashi, then. I’m not a stranger now.” 

  
Tsukishima can’t even argue with that point, which infuriates him. He just blinks for a second, stares at the hand like it’s an outstretched weapon and raises an eyebrow at it. Maybe it’s the late hour, the incessant pounding of the beat or the freckles on the stranger’s face, but he ends up shaking it. He likes freckles. Sue him. 

“Tsukishima Kei-” He begins, looking back up at Yamaguchi to see his grin widen. Before he can continue however, there’s a heavy hand clamping down with the force of an iron vice against his shoulder. Kuroo towers silently for a moment, wavers as he struggles to stay upright. He seems to be gripping so tight purely so he doesn’t fall over. Tsukishima has half a mind to sweep his knee out from under him. 

“Tsukki-” He begins, the slur in his voice twisting his words into something almost incomprehensible. His hair hangs sadly against his forehead, stark black contrasting sharply against the flush of his face. Despite the vaguely pallid hue to his skin, he’s grinning in a way that bares teeth, seemingly at nothing at all. “-Did shots with Bokuto. Gonna puke, probably. Home, please.” Is what he manages to get out around the drunkenness swelling his tongue. Tsukishima just rolls his eyes with a scoff at that, shuffles to stand up and lean Kuroo against his shoulder. The ringing laugh from Yamaguchi is crystal clear to Tsukishima’s ears, even through the muddy symphony of voices and music. 

Yamaguchi simply waves at him and offers a salute from his slouched position on the sofa, mouth curving upwards with that smile that already feels familiar. 

If he wasn’t so occupied with manhandling Kuroo out of the apartment and into his car, he might’ve noticed the way the black ink against his elbow’s skin has congregated to the tips of his fingers where he’d shaken Yamaguchi’s hand. 

He doesn’t notice, though. Eventually it settles back at his elbow. He doesn’t understand why, but when he looks at it, he feels like he’s missed something. 

\---

The library is quiet, infuriatingly so. Large sombre walls of stone, painted white, encasing a population of cheap pine shelves and poorly organised books that outline the matching pine desks and chairs gathered at the centre of the room. Usually, there’s a few more people inside to fill the emptiness with the soft tunes of turning pages and creaking chairs, but today, there’s almost nobody. It’s just Tsukishima, one other student and whoever’s on shift. 

He presses his pen against paper, watches the ink seep through the metal point into the crisp white. The stain grows, slowly, takes on an unidentifiable shape as its borders expand outwards. The harder he presses, the further the ink spreads. It’s kind of mesmerising to just watch it, the way the blot forms. Eventually, the ink seems to reach its limit and neglects to spread further. It almost looks like his own mark- it flicks up in the right corner like his, seeps out to the left a little further like his. 

Fuck, he’s bored. He knows he’s bored when he starts thinking about soulmates. It’s a winding hole of thought that Tsukishima isn’t willing to dive down today, something which the universe seems to agree with. Salvation comes in the form of a shadow at the end of his desk, the quick, pronounced slap of a palm against the polished pine wood. He recognises the bony fingers immediately, without even having to follow his gaze up the attached arm to stare at his face. 

Yamaguchi, leaning forward against the pine with an easily pleased smile and an eyebrow, tilted lightly with amusement. Now that he’s not swathed in the harsh red of the apartment’s lights, Tsukishima can see that there’s a vaguely green-ish tone to the hair that hangs lightly around his head. There’s a rough lanyard hanging at his neck, black in colour with an ID card clipped to the end. It obscures the hint of soulmark that Tsukishima remembers- he has to stop and berate himself for even looking. 

“Tsukki! Wow, it’s been like, what, two weeks? I was hoping I’d see you, and here you are!” Yamaguchi enthuses, lifting his hand to relax his position so he’s not leaning into Tsukishima’s space so much. There’s something vaguely warm in the way Yamaguchi’s words make him feel- like he’s wanted. It’s, quite frankly, humiliating. 

“Here I am.-” He begins, eyeing up Yamaguchi over the frame of his glasses. He’s not  _ smiling _ at him per se, but he’s not scowling at him either. From the grin on Yamaguchi’s face it seems he can tell the difference, as if he somehow innately knows this is Tsukishima’s way of signalling that he’s not just tolerating his presence. He does sour lightly though, twisting his mouth as he mulls over Yamaguchi’s words for a second. “Don’t call me Tsukki.” He admonishes, though there’s no fire to the words. The reprimand washes over Yamaguchi entirely, as if it doesn't even register with him. He finds he’s not bothered by Yamaguchi using the nickname enough to correct it again. Kuroo must be desensitizing him.

“How’s your friend?” Yamaguchi asks with something more akin to a smirk now, huffing lightly with amusement as he speaks. He’s settling himself into the chair opposite Tsukishima, leaning his elbows against the pine and directly on top of his notes. He should find it all a lot more infuriating than he does, really. 

“Kuroo? A mess, as always.-” He answers, snickering at his own jab before steeling his expression into something more neutral once again. He looks at the ID card hanging at Yamaguchi’s neck, now that he’s close enough. Shiny, clean plastic. Yamaguchi’s name printed in clear black. A photo, in which he looks halfway between a smile and a sneeze. It’s almost sickeningly endearing. “-Do you work here?” He asks, looking up. Yamaguchi nods, picks the ID card up from where it hangs lax, holds the plastic face up for his own eyes to inspect. 

“Yep! Tuesday, Wednesday Thursday afternoons.” He affirms, dropping the ID with a grimace at the picture. 

“Must be boring.” Tsukishima observes- it gives Yamaguchi pause for a second, before he bounds back with a smile. 

“Sometimes it is, but then other times I have people to chat to. Like you.” 

“Is that what we’re doing? Chatting?” Tsukishima pokes. It’s intended as banter, something he usually takes to with an almost prodigy-like adeptness. Something about Yamaguchi’s earnest face makes him falter, however. It sounds harsher than he means it, sounds more like an accusation than the easy back-and-forth he was aiming for. It seems to work nonetheless, as Yamaguchi snorts quietly at the remark. 

“You’re kinda prickly, you know Tsukki? You’re not great with people, are you?” He jipes back with an entertained grin. It’s not unkind, but Tsukishima sputters with indignation anyway. He scowls for a second, before sighing and allowing his face to sink into something more resigned. 

“Not really, no.” He responds, after a brief pause of hesitance. Yamaguchi simply breaks into a full laugh now, the kind where his chest shakes with it. It dislodges the lanyard from its resting place, and then there’s that inky black mark poking out from soft wool yet again. As he settles, the lanyard falls back to obscure it. 

“Well that’s okay. I kind of like how prickly and sarcastic you are. It’s my kind of humour.” Yamaguchi assures. At this, Tsukishima just leans casually across the desk further into Yamaguchi’s direction, flicks through the archives of his brain for something positively scathing to say that might have the slightest chance of making Yamaguchi laugh again. 

He doesn’t know why he’s so bothered about seeming impressive to a boy he met at the worst party of his life, but he is bothered. Very bothered. 

\---

He starts doing all his studying at the library, after that. Completely coincidentally, he also starts studying on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday afternoons. He hates the cold walls, the lack of interruption in the quiet, the way the desks all shake on their rickety legs. He hates a lot about the library, but in his own way, he has to admit he  _ likes _ Yamaguchi’s presence. The easy banter and laughs he gets are more than fair trade off for having to wear an extra layer out. 

It takes a month of consistent chatting over study notes and carved pine desks, but Tsukishima eventually manages to work himself up to calling Yamaguchi a  _ friend _ , even. Kuroo is over the moon when he sees the unfamiliar name lighting up Tsukishima’s painfully dry phone screen. 

It happens, of course- he notices. You don’t spend a month befriending someone without eventually making physical contact  _ somehow. _ It’s inevitable that it would happen. He’s leaving the library on a particularly cold Thursday afternoon, the air biting at him with gnarled teeth of ice as he nears the door. With a cheery goodbye and a light clap to his upper arm, Yamaguchi is sending him on his way into the arctic wastes ahead. It’s like as soon as he leaves, the crowd outside multiplies by ten. By the time he’s back at his apartment, he’s had to force his way through and against enough people to have him thinking he could go the rest of his life without touching another person. 

He almost faints when he sees the inkblot mark humming lightly against his upper arm, stark black and unmistakable. Not hemming his elbow, where it should be. Staining his upper arm, where it absolutely should  _ not _ be. His lungs feel small suddenly, like they’ve contracted and as if they’re two paper bags pulsating weakly behind his ribcage. It’s too much, too important to be happening like this. He thinks, thinks of every moment of contact he’s had today. The jostles of the crowd cloud over it all, though. He can think of at least 3 people who he’d jostled past in the last half hour alone. 

So it does happen, the realisation, but only in halves. The mark is moving. This, he knows. But he doesn’t have a single clue  _ who exactly  _ it’s moving to meet. 

He resolves to ignore it, hope it’ll move back, hope he never bumps into the wrong person (or, arguably, the  _ right _ person) again. 

\---

It’s late evening, the sky hanging low with hues of deep, heavy purple and ashen pink where the sun sets behind them as they walk. Two together on the pavement, moving in tandem with ease. It’s cold- colder than any day from the past month and a half, in fact. It’s like the weather turns cooler with each day, makes Tsukishima retreat further into his woolen shell as if he’s some absurdly tall tortoise. He hates the cold, but Yamaguchi insists he finds it ‘refreshing’, so maybe he’s starting to resent it slightly less. 

“Tsukki, I’m serious! He said he didn't know that library books had to be returned. Like, who does that?” Yamaguchi rants, swinging his arms lightly with vibrant gestures as he walks. It evokes a quick, subdued laugh from Tsukishima that almost immediately softens the stress lining Yamaguchi’s expression into something warmer. 

  
“Idiots. That’s who.-” He snips lightly. The conversation lulls for a moment, though it’s not uncomfortable. It’s saturated with warmth and the kind of familiarity that Tsukishima often struggles to find in a  _ year _ , let alone a month. He presses on lightly after a beat, lifting his hand from its lined pocket shield against the cold only to shift his glasses. “-So you’re sure this coffee place will be open? It’s kind of late for a coffee shop, Yamaguchi.” At this, Yamaguchi groans with an exaggerated eye roll. 

“Oh my God, yes! I promise, okay Tsukki? It’s always open, I always come here, after every shift- now I’m bringing you here! Have a little trust in me.” Yamaguchi insists, grinning warmly and shooting a gloved hand to knock lightly against Tsukishima’s side through the hefty layers of his coat. 

“Right, yes. Trust. In you. After the incident with the smashed glasses lens.” He bites, lip turning up quietly at the grunt of frustration emitting from Yamaguchi as the memory resurfaces. The skin against his side suddenly feels as if it’s radiating heat at Yamaguchi’s brief touch, even through the layers of clothing obscuring it. He likes Yamaguchi’s ease with his contact. Likes the way he’ll jokingly hit his side, bump his shoulder, hip check him when he passes. These simple moments of contact hang with razor sharp clarity in Tsukishima’s memory. He doesn’t like to be touched as a rule, yet with Yamaguchi’s small, simple moments of touch, he finds himself leaning in. He thrives on it, in a way. He’d never admit it, but sometimes he pokes fun just in the hopes that Yamaguchi will send a light slap against his chest in response. 

“Yes, trust in me! I paid for the replacement, didn’t I? You’re so unfair sometimes. I like it better when you’re…” He pauses for a second, seemingly stumbles in his thoughts and has to think for the appropriate word. “...snarking? Yeah, when you’re  _ snarking _ at other people.” Is what he settles on, rolling his eyes as he speaks. 

“Oh, but you make it so easy, Yamaguchi.” Tsukishima merely retorts, smiling minutely at the loud ‘ _ ugh, Tsukki!’ _ he gets in response. 

“We’re nearly there. If I’m paying for your coffee you legally cannot bully me, okay? So you better pipe down, or I’ll throw hot coffee at you.” Yamaguchi threatens, though the violent words are nullified entirely by the laughter warping his voice. 

Tsukishima neglects to respond, instead makes a zipping motion over his mouth with a pointed look at Yamaguchi, who’s simply grinning back at him as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.

The coffee shop rings out with the sharp trill of the doorbell when they enter. There’s a large sign displayed against the glass pane of the door, printed with the words ‘ _ Open late!’ _ as well as a set of hours. The inside is otherwise a fairly standard coffee shop, with grey fabric sofas, wooden chair sets and chalkboards lining the walls, listing off an extensive menu. Three out of eight tables are occupied. Yamaguchi seems to feel almost at home amongst it all, stepping toward the counter with a level of casualness that Tsukishima now recognises to be slightly atypical of Yamaguchi’s usual demeanour. 

“You sit, okay? I’ll order for you.” Yamaguchi states with a smile and a short nod to a table at the back, leaning up lightly to flick a finger against the side of Tsukishima’s neck. He laughs openly at the scowl Tsukishima offers in response, shoulders shaking with the sunny warmth of it.

“It’s a-” 

“A plain black coffee, large. I know, Tsukki! You told me like six times on the way here. Sit!” 

At this, Tsukishima merely nods with an exaggerated sigh of resignation, excuses himself to the table Yamaguchi had motioned toward. He sinks into the low sofa with ease, the patterned fabric coming to almost cocoon around his form. The shop hums with the gentle noise of their active heating system, as well as the overriding mumble of conversation so commonly associated with coffee shops. The longer he sits, the warmer he gets, so he resolves to shuffle out of his winter coat, settles it in a pile on the seat next to him. On instinct, he moves to roll up the sleeves of his thick jumper, too. It’s like the warm hum, the mild chatter, the mechanical clicks of the coffee machinery- it all stops, as his eyes roam over the blank elbow skin staring back at him. 

He doesn’t even really want to look at it when he first realises, so he doesn’t. He just stares ahead blankly at Yamaguchi’s form instead, where he stands at the opposite end of the coffee shop. He’s leaning against the counter with ease, chattering lightly with the blonde woman behind the mahogany surface as if they’re old friends. She nods for a second with a small smile at whatever Yamaguchi had said, turns away to start making their drinks. He’s almost mesmerised in the repetitive motion of Yamaguchi shifting lightly from left to right, until he glances down, immediately remembers the pressing matter at hand. 

Blank elbow. Again. While he’s lost in his own pit of thought, Yamaguchi saunters along his peripheral, like nothing in the world has changed. For Yamaguchi he supposes, it hasn’t. It’s perhaps too hasty, the way he pulls his sleeve back down, because Yamaguchi silently raises an eyebrow at the motion as he sits, two steaming white ceramic cups in hand. Tsukishima just shakes his head as if to say ‘ _ don’t ask’ _ . He wouldn’t be able to respond, anyway. It feels like there’s something heavy against his chest, like he might be sick, like he should scream, or run. It feels like everything at once, all blending together to create some impossibly convoluted mess of ‘ _ Oh God Oh Fuck Where The Fuck Is My Mark Now’. _ He doesn’t even have the luxury of frantically searching for it. Not here, under Yamaguchi’s watchful gaze, the warm flush of his cheeks against the heating system, the dimple at the corner of his mouth. 

Good thing he doesn’t have to search, because Yamaguchi points it out for him. 

“Oh, hey, Tsukki! I just noticed your mark. Sits on your neck, like mine!” He comments leisurely, pulling lightly at his own shirt collar as if to show Tsukishima where his mark  _ should _ be. What he sees, of course, is a blank patch of lightly freckled skin. Yamaguchi doesn’t seem to realise this, however- doesn’t even seem faintly aware of the blackened inkblot that sits on the tip of his finger, against his nail. Right where he’d flicked Tsukishima. It’s almost invisible where the contact site had been so small, but Tsukishima’s focus on it is rapt. The dots connect, and now he  _ really _ feels like he might faint. 

He neglects to respond, because honestly, he’s not sure he can right now. It’s kind of a heavy thing, to realise somebody is your soulmate. Especially to realise it in public, while they’re staring at you, smiling at you over their cup of hot coffee, raising concerned eyebrows at you. Yamaguchi, only slightly perturbed by the silence, presses on. 

“I never even noticed before. I guess it’s ‘cause you always wear scarves out, or turtlenecks. Just funny that they’re in the same place, is all!” He quips lightly, adjusting in his seat with an expression that suggests he can tell something has changed within Tsukishima. It’s as if he’s attempting to dissuade whatever it is with light conversation, but this knot of life-upturning knowledge is too tightly woven to be dismantled. However, Yamaguchi just seems to interpret it as simple discomfort at the topic as opposed to a sudden groundbreaking realisation. Tsukishima supposes he should be thankful for the error in interpretation, so he offers a weak hum in response to the remark. 

He sips at his coffee despite the heat, schools his face so as not to react to the almost immediate scorch of it against his mouth. He’s rational- he knows this. He’s rational, factual, logical, cool, collected. He doesn’t faint in coffee shops, nor does he have epiphanies that lead to grand professions of love. He should tell Yamaguchi his realisation, really. But something in him doesn’t want to. It’s probably the freshness of it- of both his friendship with Yamaguchi as a whole, as well as the realisation. He should, but he just  _ can’t.  _

Maybe it’s selfish, but he’d like to sit with it for a while. To come at it with a strategy, something bulletproof, as opposed to simply running at it in the dark. Wants to familiarise himself with the fact, to trace his mind over the shape of that inkblot until he knows it by heart. It’s too much for him as it is, so to invite another person to it seems almost impossible to conceptualise, no matter how cosmically linked they are to the issue at hand. They sit in silence for a while as he mulls, sipping in tandem and sinking further into their respective seats. 

The remainder of the evening seems to slink by in similar fashion- largely occupied with slightly volatile silence. They do punctuate the long pauses with remarks here or there, but something unspoken has obviously changed, as Tsukishima’s sharp comments and quick snips aren’t up to their usual standard. He doesn’t need the mildly confused look in Yamaguchi’s eyes to tell him this fact- he can already feel it himself as soon as the words come out.

When he gets home, he just stares at his elongated arm in the mirror. Traces the path of the mark as it slowly migrates across the expanse of his neck, down to its usual resting place at his elbow. 

He feels deeply unprepared for the implications of what he now knows. Because now that there’s a face to his musings on soulmates, he knows he won’t be able to play the cynic about it much longer. Not when that face is always smiling, ornamented with freckles, laughing at his jokes, coming right back at him with the same wit he doles out. 

He’s fucked. 

\---

He knows he should tell Yamaguchi. He knows he’s being unfair, he’s being selfish. This isn’t a game, and Yamaguchi  _ needs _ to know. 

But it’s so easy to keep it to himself, to sit alone with it and nurture it like a brooding hen. Before he even realises, two further months slip by after the realisation. Two months, and he still hasn’t told Yamaguchi. Yet the further it goes on, the harder it seems. How  _ could _ he tell Yamaguchi now, after this? How is he supposed to, now that he’s looking at Yamaguchi with the saccharine, rose-tinted glow of a soulmate? 

How is he supposed to take the way the sun bounces off Yamaguchi’s face, the way his throat constricts at every light slap of Yamaguchi’s hand at his shoulder, the way Yamaguchi’s laughter reverberates within his own chest reminiscent of how an organ echoes against the walls of a cathedral- how does he take these things, these abstract concepts of emotion, and condense them into words? He’s not in love with Yamaguchi. This is simply a fact- he’s known Yamaguchi for about three months, after all. He  _ knows  _ he doesn’t love him, yet he’s so blindingly afraid of it all- of the way his eyes linger against the lines of Yamaguchi’s face on long, maudlin Thursday afternoons, the inkblot at the junction of his neck and shoulder, the strand of hair that sticks up no matter how many times Yamaguchi presses it down. 

The fear doesn’t lie in actively loving Yamaguchi. The fear lies in the simple fact that Tsukishima often thinks that someday, he  _ could _ , would  _ like _ to be in love with him.

And it would be far easier than he’s prepared for. 

\---

Yamaguchi’s apartment sucks. It’s not an insult, or an attack. It’s just a truthful observation- because it well and truly sucks. It’s cold where the walls let out the heat, his neighbours are too loud, the fridge hums obnoxiously at all hours, and those are only the issues Tsukishima can  _ see.  _ The living area is sparse- simple, cheap furnishings, a few plants, blank white walls, a ratty looking rug. It’s all very typical of a uni student apartment, right down to the empty kitchen cabinets and recycling tub full of takeout containers and emptied coke cans. 

Another month since the realisation, coming to make three months in total post-soulmate reveal.

The tap of the kitchen drips, mingles in with the gentle croon of the television. It reminds Tsukishima of a metronome- this incessant clicking, constantly cutting through the air to mark each second as it slips away from them. Yamaguchi doesn’t even seem to register the background noise from his seat in front of the television, like he’s blocked it all out completely. 

“You should fix your tap.” He comments, words cutting through the ambient mumble like a knife slices through a pat of butter. Yamaguchi’s head perks from where it sits slouched against the back of the sofa, expression blanking as he considers the words briefly, his mind reeling to catch up in its slurred state of being half asleep. 

“I guess so. I don’t really know how, so I just ignore it. I’m good at tuning annoying noises out now that I’m friends with you, Tsukki!” Is the sardonic, biting response he gets. Immediately he sends an errant kick out to collide into Yamaguchi’s side with an eye roll, though his scowl quickly melts into something almost  _ sentimental _ in nature as Yamaguchi dissolves into a cackle. 

“Oh, you’re funny, Yamaguchi. So funny I think I’ll die from the laughter. Ha.” He deadpans, which only serves to push Yamaguchi further into laughter at Tsukishima’s expense.

“Don’t lie, that was a good one. It was!” 

“You’re as bad as Hinata, sometimes.” 

At this, a deep gasp of extremely exaggerated offense. To really drive the act home, Yamaguchi brings a hand to rest against his upper chest as if he’s scandalised by the very notion. Tsukishima doesn’t even bother pretending he isn’t entertained anymore- just lets the amused grin slip through his filter easily. 

“You take that back right now, Tsukishima Kei.” Yamaguchi demands. The way Yamaguchi’s soft spoken voice shapes the letters of his name rings in Tsukishima’s mind, blocks out everything else except Yamaguchi saying ‘ _ Kei’  _ in his sarcastic tone, wavering with suppressed amusement. 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Tsukki! You’re  _ mean _ . To me and to Hinata.” Yamaguchi huffs, poking his tongue out and narrowing his eyes, leaning forward with his whole torso now to face Tsukishima and address him fully. 

“Excuse me? I believe this started with  _ you _ insulting  _ me. _ ” Tsukishima asserts, easy grin taking on a gently mocking edge as it widens against his face. Yamaguchi blanks for a second, seeming to run over the conversation in his mind before he huffs, prompting a short bark of laughter from Tsukishima. 

“No comment.” Is all Yamaguchi has to say, settling back into his seat and turning away, face dissolving from feigned indignation into an expression of humour, lips curling up at the sides. Silence settles once again, though it’s not heavy, or stifling. It’s an easy silence, one that doesn’t crave interruption. It simply hangs over them like a comfortable blanket, a testament to the security Tsukishima finds in Yamaguchi’s presence. 

He doesn’t tend to have warm silences with anyone else.

The television continues to flicker, casting multicoloured hues across the room as the image constantly changes, morphs from scene to scene. He’s not really paying attention, but it’s something to stare at blankly as his mind wanders, so he settles his eyes against the kaleidoscope screen nonetheless.

It’s like they’re sheltered from the passage of time completely. Isolated away from the world in that tiny apartment, wrapped up in the flickering television screen and the soft cotton of Yamaguchi’s sofa cushions. Two model people within the glassy shell of a snowglobe, placed on some shelf of the universe to gather dust and bounce off the sunlight. Tsukishima hates that feeling- the feeling of time either passing uncontrollably or neglecting to pass at all. It’s part of the reason he resents parties with such ferocity. But now, here, sitting next to Yamaguchi, the silent minutes don’t feel so bad after all.

“Tsukki.” Yamaguchi starts, shattering through the silence with ease once again. 

“What?” 

“Do you think I should get a haircut?” Yamaguchi asks. At this, Tsukishima simply raises an eyebrow, turns his head to face him with a look of mild confusion. 

“Isn’t that kind of a random question?”

“Maybe. Answer it!” 

“Well, I don’t know. If you want to, I suppose. Why are you asking me?” 

Yamaguchi has turned to face Tsukishima too, now. He just smiles easily, raises a hand up to fidget with the deep, green-toned strands in question. There’s something vaguely self conscious pulling at the corners of his expression as he moves to speak, but he seems to press on through it anyway. 

“Because I care what you think, I guess. I trust your opinion, Tsukki!” He responds, painfully earnest in a way that clenches directly around Tsukishima’s chest and squeezes. It’s hard to not let the profound effect such a simple sentence has on him to show through, so he forces himself to glance away from Yamaguchi’s eyes and stare at the television once again instead. He can feel his face burning. 

“Oh.” He pauses for a second, lets the air settle around them as he struggles against his own ingrained need to shrink away from any kind of closeness. He wants to be vulnerable, no matter how much his instincts tell him not to be. He  _ wants  _ to, in this metaphorical glassy snowglobe with Yamaguchi. “Well… I care about your opinion, too. Even if you are worse than Hinata.” 

“Tsukki!” Comes the affronted response, though Yamaguchi’s laughing, too. He’s grinning almost serenely at Tsukishima’s words. It’s like no matter how many barbs Tsukishima wraps himself in, armours his words and feelings in, Yamaguchi just sees right through it. It’s a funny feeling, to be  _ seen _ like that. 

“If you really want to know what I think, then I think your hair suits you when it’s grown out a bit.” He affirms, leaning slightly over to press carefully into Yamaguchi’s space. It’s only by about an inch, but an inch closer is still an inch closer. 

“Really?”

“Yes. Why would I lie?” 

“Gosh, Tsukki, are you feeling okay? That almost sounded like a compliment.” Yamaguchi laughs, shoulders shaking against the sofa with the ringing movement. Tsukishima would like to scoff and roll his eyes, to scowl, to give an irritated glare. But it’s like he’s lost the ability- all he can do is exhale with amusement, smile minutely toward himself at the joke. 

“Cool, so I’ve decided to never give you a compliment ever again.” 

“No, Tsukki! I’m serious! You must be really ill, or something! Let me check.” 

As soon as Yamaguchi turns and starts to lean in, it’s like things set into slow motion. The back of his hand is coming directly to lay against Tsukishima’s forehead in a mock temperature check. He’s going to lean in, press his hand to Tsukishima’s face. He’s going to lean in, and watch ink bleed across his own skin directly into Tsukishima’s. He’s going to lean in, and he’s going to  _ see _ . It’s like his blood runs cold and he sets into autodrive, recoiling from the impending touch as if he’s been burned. The hand retracts lightly at his visceral reaction, falters. There’s a flicker of confusion and something akin to concern across Yamaguchi’s face, though he quickly shifts into laughter in an attempt to play the tense moment off. 

This isn’t what he wants. He doesn’t  _ want  _ to shy away from it. What he  _ wants _ is to lean into the touch, to place his palms into Yamaguchi’s and stare at the ink marks as they come together, blend into one at the tips of their fingers. He’d like to tuck himself into the lines of Yamaguchi’s form, to press himself against Yamaguchi’s side so that there isn’t even an inch of empty space left standing between them. To watch two inkblots amalgamate into one across two expanses of skin. 

There’s a test, in psychology. The Rorschach test. You take an inkblot on paper, present it to someone, ask them what they see. You analyse it, untangle all their problems, everyone walks away happy. But when Tsukishima presses his pen into paper, watches the ink spread, looks at the formation- all he sees is a freckled face, and the kind of human contact he wants _ , needs,  _ but struggles to allow himself to have. 

He’d like to have it- and maybe he could, if he could get the words out. But he can’t. So he doesn’t. 

\---

Tsukishima is not one to sit in cars at three in the morning. He’s a strictly regimented kind of person- almost militant in his routine. He sleeps early, rises early. Same time every night, same time every morning, without fail. He doesn’t stay awake, nor does he intentionally wake up for anybody else, as a rule. 

Though yet again, here he is. In a car at three AM, riding passenger next to Yamaguchi. All because Yamaguchi had texted him that he was hungry, and asked for a late-night fast food run. He does a lot of small things for Yamaguchi. Or, they  _ look _ small, anyhow. They feel impossibly huge, to him. Maybe it’s indicative of an overall lack of connection and affection with other people, but these small things feel like mountains for Tsukishima every single time. He wouldn’t do them for anyone else.

It’s raining heavily where they’re parked, stationary in the car park attached to the fast food place they’d driven through about ten minutes ago. The droplets beat down heavily, an endless barrage of violent symphony against the comfortable layer of silence lingering over them. Each one knocks against the glassy windshield, fragments into a large puddle with the force of the impact, slides down before merging with the rest of the droplets to drip away into nothingness. The radio murmurs on mildly in the background of the rain, dropping occasionally with poor connection, voice warping and sliding in and out of pitch before correcting itself. Said voice is different to the usual voice he associates with the radio. Must be the night presenter. There’s a paper bag on his lap, filled with the remnants of their late snack, wadded up sheets of grease-proof paper and empty red cardboard boxes. 

Yamaguchi is next to him, leaning against the driver’s seat with an almost sedated quality to his face. He looks so calm, just sitting there, staring into the unceasing bombardment of rain. It’s pitch black out, but the faint glow of the streetlight hanging directly over their parking space is enough to highlight the features of Yamaguchi’s face in an almost bronze, statuesque glow. The shadows of the falling droplets against the windshield seem to blend in with his freckles, almost makes them look like they’re sliding down his face. 

“That was worth the trip. Don’t pretend it wasn’t, because it absolutely was.” Yamaguchi sighs, serene expression turning away from the droplets to face Tsukishima with a grin. 

“I suppose so.” He responds, lifting the bag easily to drop it off his lap, to lie it next to his feet on the footrest instead. They’re both in their pajamas, to top the late hour off. It should feel embarrassing, but next to Yamaguchi, it’s like nobody else even really registers. 

“You don’t have to get up early tomorrow, do you? Or well, technically it’s today, I suppose.” Yamaguchi asks, eyes wandering upward for a second as he thinks before returning to rest on Tsukishima’s face. 

He does have to get up early tomorrow, but he doesn’t want to admit that. The hesitance to respond seems to admit it for him, however. Immediately Yamaguchi straightens up, leaps forward in his chair with alarm. 

“Tsukki! Why didn’t you tell me, or say no? You’re going to be exhausted!” He chastises, voice alight with worry and exasperation. The way his eyebrows crease, his nose crinkles slightly- every inch of the look on his face goes straight to Tsukishima’s chest, melts right into it like butter. Maybe the late hour is just making him soft, or the humming of the radio is stifling out his better judgement, because he just speaks what he feels without even attempting to subdue it or flip it into something sarcastic. 

“Because it’s you.” 

It’s painfully honest, and the effect on Yamaguchi is almost instant. It’s like his entire body sags with the weight of the words as he sinks back into his chair, expression turning from concern to something impossibly dewy-eyed and affectionate. Tsukishima feels almost bare as he sits in his dinosaur printed pajamas, emotions laid without any bite or humour to protect them in front of Yamaguchi.

“Don’t just casually say things like that, Tsukki, or I’ll start crying, and there’ll be no stopping me.” Is what Yamaguchi mumbles after a beat of soft silence. “I’m serious, though. How early is it?” 

“It’s- well. I was going to say it’s not that early, but to be completely honest with you, it’s eight AM.” 

“Tsukki! Fuck, how are you going to even be  _ alive _ ? Like, I’d just skip at that point. But I know you don’t skip. What are you going to do?” Yamaguchi presses, concern rushing back in full force. He’s fiddling with the drawstring of his ratty old hoodie as he speaks, eyebrows shooting up and down with the force of his worried expression. Tsukishima’s eyes feel magnetised to the motion of his fingers, barely visible under the meek streetlight glow. 

“I’m sure I’ll survive, Tadashi. Don’t worry so much about me. You didn’t force me out, I went of my own will. Don’t feel bad, or I’m not coming out for late night snacks with you again. That’s not a threat, either. It’s a promise.” He assures, trying to school his voice into something soothing, steady, something for Yamaguchi to cool his own nerves against. 

“You seem prickly, but you’re secretly just a big sap, Kei. I’m always worrying about you, especially when you do things like this.” There’s a pause, then. They just stare at each other under the damp light, unblinking, unwavering. The air almost feels electrical with the unspoken sentiment hanging behind each syllable. “If you text me when you wake up, and I’ll bring you coffee after your lecture, okay? I’m free all morning, and it’ll make me feel better. Just accept it.” 

“As if I’d reject free coffee.” 

“I swear, Tsukki, it’s like you enjoy it more when you know I’m breaking my bank to pay for it.” Yamaguchi accuses, though there’s no weight behind the words and there’s a soft smile spreading over his face that directly contradicts the tone he intends to take. Tsukishima can’t help the responding snort of laughter. 

“Ah, you got me there. I do.” 

The rain picks up in the ensuing silence, the simple lull in conversation. It was heavy before, but now it’s downright ferocious. The drops shattering into the windshield have increased exponentially in volume, and Tsukishima can see now as they rocket past outside, briefly catching the light of the streetlamp as they nosedive downward, taking on the appearance of fat drops of molten gold for a single second in their descent to the concrete ground of the car park. 

The radio falters violently under the weather, voice shrinking in and out to become incomprehensible before burying itself under the encroaching static. Yamaguchi simply sighs with a soft mutter, reaches a hand out to flick the radio off completely. The rain is all the backing track they need, anyway. The red flickering light of the small digital clock displayed on the screen of Yamaguchi’s dashboard pierces through the dark, an imminent reminder. Time  _ is  _ passing, and Tsukishima  _ will  _ have to leave soon. 

Something about the red of the clock, the piercing rain, the fact they’re in pajamas, the fact that it’s creeping closer to four AM with every tick- something about all of these facts melded together makes Tsukishima feel ready, suddenly. It’s like right here, right now, he knows it’s okay. He knows that he’s safe, with Yamaguchi. That Yamaguchi won’t stab through at him, won’t see the fleshy, unprotected underside of his emotions and head straight for the kill. 

He doesn’t know why he feels ready  _ now, _ or if now is even the best time to do it. But Yamaguchi needs to know, and he doesn’t want to wait anymore. He’s done sitting with it alone. He wants to pass it to Yamaguchi to nurture, too. 

“Tadashi, I think we’re both really stupid.” He says, turning his face to stare down Yamaguchi with a self-deprecating laugh- a laugh at nothing, and at everything, all at once. 

“Um, well… I agree, but please elaborate.” 

At that, Tsukishima simply reaches his own arm out, grabs ahold of the hand Yamaguchi has resting lax against the soft tracksuit material on his leg. Encloses his fingers carefully around Yamaguchi’s, entwines them fully the way he  _ wants. _ There’s no resistance from Yamaguchi- he even responds in tandem, hand tightening around Tsukishima’s own, despite the lack of explanation or apparent reason for the gesture. 

Of course, it quickly becomes apparent when both their fingers slowly turn black, inky tendrils spreading across skin from the fingertips up to the knuckles. It looks like a pen has exploded between them- it’s undeniable. Yamaguchi simply stares, eyes cloudy with something unreadable as he takes note of the display in front of him. 

“Oh.” Is all he says, voice watery with the force of it. He pauses once again, thinks for a moment before the muddle of his expression dissipates and a smile breaks through. “Yeah, I think you were right. We are pretty stupid, huh?” 

“Yeah.” 

The rain keeps battering down and the streetlight starts to flicker, but it all feels far away from their insulated bubble. 

Yamaguchi is his soulmate, and he knows, and it looks like it all might be okay after all. 

\---

“Kei, you’re going to work yourself to death over that paper.” Comes Yamaguchi’s voice, soft and pliant with worry as he looms next to his seated form, places a cool hand to rest against the back of Tsukishima’s neck in a gesture of comfort. It’s strangely grounding against the forming headache storming Tsukishima’s brain as he stares into the work ahead of him. 

It’s been a year since that night in the car, and now Tsukishima  _ knows _ it was (and will continue to be) okay after all. 

“Don’t worry about me so much, Tadashi. I keep telling you not to.” He insists, leaning back lightly into the touch. “It’s almost finished, anyway.” 

“Well when you stop doing dumb things, I’ll stop worrying, Tsukki.” Yamaguchi responds, lifting his hand carefully to drape against Tsukishima’s shoulder instead. From the corner of his eye he can see the black staining the fingertips- every time, no matter how many times, it makes his chest feel tight with emotion. 

He just leans to the side against Yamaguchi’s lower torso, eases his glasses off his face with a sigh, places them carefully against the offending paper on the desk in front of him. 

“Yeah, okay. I love you.” 

“I love you too.” 

And it’s  _ so _ easy, just like that. He was right. He  _ could _ love Yamaguchi,  _ does _ love him.

And it’s the easiest thing in the world. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! a comment or a kudos goes a long way!  
> come say hi and follow my tumblr at osamuiya!


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